


Banners

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Characters - Friendship, Multi-Age, Other - Freeform, Plot - I reread often, Writing - Engaging style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2003-07-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:30:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 13,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flower of Vinyamar

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Author's Note: To those who have read a story called ["Finding Courage,"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/works/chapter.cfm?STID=2106) this is a little vignette set about 39 years before, just after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.  
* * *  
Nárello rallied his warriors toward the twin banners of Turgon and Fingon with a hoarse cry. “ _Roqueni laurëalóti!_ ”

Somewhere in the fray, his brother led part of Nárello’s _gweth,_ yet since giving the younger Elf the order, Nárello had not seen Glorfindel. His eyes quickly flashed over the various troops who passed him or took positions at his left or right, seeking his brother by his golden hair. An occasional glimpse of fair or silver-fair hair among the corpses, yet none wore the green and gold of the Golden Flower and Nárello could only wonder where Glorfindel’s _gweth_ had gone.

_The enemy is too many,_ he thought, _and I need you back,_ toronya. Hallas and Artamir were at his right hand, Calion on his left with the banner of the Golden Flower. The warriors of his _gweth_ massed behind him, shields locked to hold the line, yet still it was not enough.

“ _Roqueni laurëalóti!_ ” He saw Fingon’s banner topple, leaving only the red, gold and white of Turgon’s House, and Nárello’s rallying cry turned to one of desperation.

Turning, Nárello’s eyes met the scalding slash of a Balrog’s whip. Fiery tendrils lashed the helm from his head. He heard Calion’s far-off scream and the last thing he saw before the Balrog’s sword opened his throat was his banner, green and gold ablaze as it fell.

* * *  
“So lovely a thing is this,” said Ondollo, laying the green silk over Glorfindel’s lap.  
  
“What is it?” Glorfindel had a vague idea what it was, for under the light, smooth folds he could see golden threads gleaming. No, it was not his new livery, for the King’s own tailor had delivered that several days ago and he had specifically instructed the steward to put the finery away until he absolutely must wear it. Ondollo knew he had no interest in jewels or silks, and knew better than to try to lift his spirits thus.  
  
The steward shook out the folds and, still holding one end, stepped back so the cloth spread wide. A rayed golden flower, picked out in metallic thread, its heart a gem like honey, glimmering in the strands of sunlight that fell through the window. Underneath the petals, in bold glittering Tengwar, was the motto, “ _Laurëalótalië._ ”  
  
Glorfindel looked at it in disinterest. All along the top edge, where Ondollo gripped the fabric, grommets pierced holes where a cord or metal rings might be run through for display. “Banners we have,” he said. “Why go to the expense of ordering a new one?”  
  
Ondollo stepped toward him, gathering up the green silk as he went. “All the Houses have ordered new banners to replace the ones lost at…the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, _herunya._ And it has always been the custom for a new lord to have his own—”  
  
“There was nothing _wrong_ with Nárello’s banner.” Except that it had been thrown down when Glorfindel’s brother, chief of the House of the Golden Flower, fell under the Balrog, and was trampled and burnt beyond recovery; the warriors of the Golden Flower marched the sad road back to Gondolin without their banner or their lord’s body.

Glorfindel waited for the steward to remind him of this fact, but Ondollo did not speak. “I suppose next you will tell me that it is the custom for the new Lord of the House to have a new sword made because his predecessor’s is not good enough.” He instantly regretted the harshness of his tone; he had done nothing, it seemed, but snipe at Ondollo since their return to Gondolin. _You should put me in my place as you used to,_ herendur. _Lordship is not a license to abuse you so._

Turgon had already given him a sword, one of the many gifts he had bestowed upon the surviving lords and _roqueni_ of Gondolin. The sword, of richly worked and bejeweled steel, lay at the bottom of a chest while Glorfindel wore his brother’s battered and scored weapon; it was the only thing he had left of his brother that had been intimately connected with Nárello.  
  
“My lord,” Ondollo said calmly, “do you remember the _elanor_ that grew on the green hill of Túna?”  
  
“You know my memories of Valinor are very faint.”  
  
“When your father first came to Nevrast and chose his banner and you saw it waving in the sea breeze for the first time, do you remember how delighted you were?”  
  
“That was nearly five hundred years ago and I had not yet reached my majority. You know how little I remember of the time we spent in Vinyamar.” Glorfindel reminded himself to speak more gently, but if his steward wished to allay his grief he could have chosen a better topic than his slain kin.  
  
“My lord, if you would but look at the silk. You are right, banners we have, and this one is not new.”  
  
Glorfindel had not noticed the threadbare edges, where the banner had been whipped by the breeze and begun to unravel. Holding it to the sunlight, he saw the color was not the rich, deep green of his House, but was faded and blotched in places. “You used secondhand fabric.”

“No, _pitya laurëlótënya._ ” Ondollo cuffed him gently on the ear. “This is lord Elvanir’s banner. Nárello wanted his own banner, of course, so I packed it away with the thought that perhaps someday he might change his mind.”

Taking the fabric between his hands, Glorfindel tried to glean some memory from it. After Turgon’s people left Vinyamar for Gondolin, Elvanir spent increasingly less time with his sons, acting as the king’s emissary to Fingolfin the High King. He had fallen in an ambush on the road to Hithlum; Fingolfin’s men had not been able to recover the body, but Elvanir’s banner the High King sent back to Turgon with many rich gifts. All these years, Glorfindel assumed Nárello had borne their father’s banner; his memory recalled a bolt of rich green silk that had been among Fingolfin’s gifts, and he knew now to what purpose Nárello had put it.

Glorfindel crumpled the silk in his hands and brought it to his face. The cloth smelled of moth balls and the cedar wood chest in which it had been stored.

“Oh, now, herunya,” Ondollo said behind him, “if you are going to weep, please, you will leave marks on the silk.”

* * *  
Notes: (All words in Quenya, unless otherwise noted)  
 _Roqueni laurëalóti!_ knights of the Golden Flower  
 _gweth:_ (Sindarin) regiment, troop of able-bodied men. Some of the Gondolindrim were Sindarin and that language would have been widely spoken in the Hidden City, perhaps more so than Quenya.  
 _toronya:_ my brother  
 _Laurëalótalië_ : People of the Golden Flower  
 _herunya_ : my lord  
 _herendur_ : steward (to a lord)  
 _roqueni:_ knights  
 _pitya laurëlótënya_ : my little golden flower.  
Nowhere does Tolkien say that Turgon sent emissaries abroad from Gondolin, but as he does mention that Turgon closed the Hidden Way after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and allowed no one to travel to or from the vale of Tumladen, and given that Fingolfin was Turgon’s father as well as his High King, it is reasonable to assume there must have been some carefully guarded traffic from Gondolin.  
\--Zimraphel, 2003


	2. Golden Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

Here is my [entry](http://mywebpages.comcast.net/gryphonsmith/fileg/challenge.html#glorfindle) for the Banner challenge

Shunt (jmueller01@comcast.net)  
[ shunt's stories ](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confID=6&Forumid=323)

 


	3. Reddened Flag/Le Sang Sur le Drapeau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

My captain has chosen me to be the standard bearer. I am too young to be given a sword, apparently. Too young to kill. Yet I want to. The host of Morgoth has attacked our realm and I want to defend it.

I am too young to defend my home, and so I was given this piece of fabric to held. The arms of Turgon Fingolfin’s son, High King of the Noldor, King of Gondolin: "the moon and the sun and the scarlet heart". The sun is Finwë’s obviously, and I think that the heart is Fingolfin’s, but I have no idea what the moon is doing on this banner. Shouldn’t they have explained to me what the symbols stand for before they asked me to display them?

Ai! another group of orcs! Will they ever stop coming? Has Morgoth such an endless supply of them? Um, not so sure I want an answer to that . . .

I am getting afraid. Is it possible that Morgoth could win? Ah Elbereth! Say it is not so! Is fair Gongolin to be defiled by the orcs? I shudder to think what they could do to the Hidden City, what they have probably already done . . .

We are now surrounded and our number is dwindling. Well, I did wish to enter the action, didn’t I? I pick up a sword and huddle closer to the King, as do the others. My sword is hard to use with that standard in the other hand. My balance is not good.

Yet I cannot set it down. It is our last pride, the symbol of our King, our land, our people. To let it fall would be to admit defeat.

And so I go on hacking on both sides while I try to bear our standard as high and straight as possible. We are so few now, and the orcs so numerous.

I feel intense pain in my belly, and my sight becomes a red blur. I try to hold up, but in vain. I fall on my knees, but I am still holding the standard.

Another flash of pain in my shoulder. I fall forward, and I cannot prevent my hand from opening. My head hits the ground, hard. Dimly, distantly, I see our flag falling down, reddened with blood, trampled by orcish feet.

I close my eyes. Forgive me, my King, for I have failed.

 

****

A/N:And especially for Dwim, since she asked for it:

Le sang sur le drapeau

 

 

Mon capitaine m’a choisi pour être le porte-drapeau. Je suis trop jeune pour avoir une épée, apparemment. Trop jeune pour tuer. Pourtant, c’est ce que je veux faire. L’armée de Morgoth a attaqué notre royaume et je veux le défendre.

Je suis trop jeune pour défendre mon pays, donc on m’a donné ce morceau de tissu à porter. Les couleurs de Turgon fils de Fingolfin, Haut Roi des Noldor, Roi de Gondolin: « la lune et le soleil et le cœur écarlate ». C’est le soleil de Finwë, bien sûr, et je pense que c’est le cœur de Fingolfin, mais je ne vois pas ce que la lune vient faire sur cette bannière. Est-ce qu’on n’aurait pas dû m’expliquer ce que les symboles signifient avant de me demander de les exhiber?

Ai! un autre groupe d’orques! Ne vont-ils jamais s’arrêter? Morgoth en a-t-il tellement à sa disposition? Hum, je ne suis pas sûr de vouloir connaître la réponse…

Je commence à avoir peur. Est-il possible que Morgoth puisse gagner? Ah Elbereth! Dis-moi que ce n’est pas vrai! Est-ce que Gondolin va être profanée par des orques? Je tremble à la pensée de ce qu’ils pourraient faire à la Cité Cachée, de ce qu’ils ont probablement déjà fait…

Nous sommes maintenant encerclés et notre effectif diminue. Eh bien, je voulais prendre part à l’action, n’est-ce pas? Je ramasse une épée et me presse autour du Roi, comme les autres. Mon épée est difficile à utiliser avec cet étendard dans l’autre main. J’ai du mal à garder l’équilibre.

Et pourtant je ne peux pas le lâcher. C’est notre dernière fierté, le symbole de notre Roi, de notre pays, de notre peuple. Le laisser tomber serait reconnaître notre défaite.

Donc je continue à frapper des deux côtés tout en essayant de porter notre étendard aussi haut et droit que possible. Il reste si peu d’entre nous maintenant, et les orques sont si nombreux.

Je ressent une douleur intense au ventre, et mes yeux se voilent de rouge. J’essaie de rester debout, en vain. Je tombe à genoux, mais je tiens toujours l’étendard.

Une autre douleur à l’épaule. Je tombe en avant, et je ne peux pas empêcher ma main de s’ouvrir. Ma tête heurte le sol avec dureté. Vaguement, comme dans un brouillard, je vois notre drapeau tomber, rougi par le sang, piétiné par les orques.

Je ferme les yeux. Pardonnez-moi, mon Roi, car j’ai échoué.

***  
\-- Arbelethiel  



	4. Miriel's Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

_In that time the fleets of the Númenóreans darkened the sea upon the west of the land, and they were like an archipelago of a thousand isles; their masts were as a forest upon the mountains, and their sails like a brooding cloud; and their banners were gold and black._

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, "Akallabêth"

 

I stood below Meneltarma and watched as the fleet formed. Ship after ship, setting sail from Eldalondë and Andunië, and dropping anchor off the coast until I could see no sea. As each vessel joined the others, the banner of the King was raised, gold and sable. A banner that once I had loved, as the sign of Númenor's greatness. Now, it stands only for the hatred I bear my husband, my usurper.

He came to me, nigh on forty days ago, as the harbours emptied, and looked long on me. His eyes were filled with pride, and the knowledge of his power over me and over this land. "Ah, Zimraphel," he said, using the name I hate, "so cold and so fair. I will send for thee when I have conquered the Deathless, that you may see my victory. Until then, farewell." He bent, and kissed me, and went down to Alcarondas. A short while after I saw his standard raised high on the main mast, and I turned from the west.

In the morning, the fleet had gone, and the gold and black had vanished from the horizon. Those left whispered that other banners were still to be seen, laid off to the east - the banners of the lord Elendil and his sons, my kinsmen. I see them even now, even as I climb desperately upwards. Somehow, those banners, fluttering bravely in this sudden storm, give me hope.

The air is hot with fire and the stench of smoke. The temple to Sauron burns, but the tower built by Elros stands yet. That is my aim; I must reach that tower, I must reach it!

I glance east, and see Elendil's standard begin to move. The sea is foaming, the waves growing, sweeping from the west. The sky now is dark, and the earth seems to move beneath me. I am almost there, I can see the tower.

And as I climb tears are running down my cheeks unchecked. I am weeping for the fall of my land, for the fall of that mighty banner. The power and glory of Westernesse, Númenor the Golden, before it vanished into shadow and darkness.

In the west the sea is rising, a crest of foam. I call out into the tumult, a plea to whoever is listening, but my voice is lost. I am lost.

Númenor has fallen.

***  
\-- Eledhwen  



	5. Banners In the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

  
The sound of the wind was all he could hear above the pounding of his own heart- the wind, and the whirling of the banners around him. The fabrics flapped producing a sound which seemed to him more steady than the beating inside his chest. If not more steady, at least more certain and true for the banners would remain, and that for which they stand, long after he had ceased to walk among the living; so was his hope and the reason he went forth.

Before him he felt the solitude of the plain; behind him, the solemn presence of hundreds and thousands of warriors, the hosts of Gil-galad and Elendil, already assembled to begin the march South, the final march. He had already glanced upon the glory of their princes and captains, mighty as the sun, steadfast as the moon, but this morning their faces did not matter; he looked around searching only for their hearts, and there they were: hundreds of standards flying like birds, the wind playfully teasing their folds, and obligingly did they answer as though oblivious of the purpose of their very existence. They rose in splendor above the grey gloom of horses and people, and under the dim light he distinguished their colors. To his right he saw shades of blue like the sky, silver, yellow; to his left he saw green, gold, white over black like the night... and stars, many stars, or was it the flicker of the soldiers’ eyes? And the stars made him think of his father, who had risked all to win hope for these people, and of his brother whose children he now fought to defend, and of his own fate... was it worth it?

And then, the High King raised his hand and the world came to a halt. The horses did not neigh, the riders did not move, the clinking of armors and metal ceased; hearts seemed to have stopped, and all eyes were focused on his raised palm. Then, the King turned and spoke to him.

"It is time now, Elrond. Give the sign."

His hand reached at once for the horn. He allowed his fingers to trace the patterns and words written on it, the lineage of his sires, the history of his people, and now he would also be a part of it. One last time he reveled on the sound of the banners in the wind, then slowly rose the horn to his mouth and blew. A high, clear note came that drowned all other noises and he understood: all their hearts beat with the same rhythm.

Then Elrond looked behind him and saw the standards raised high, and a moment after the King’s hand dropped and the host went forth. At last the flags were marching south, like one, to conquer darkness, and he had been there to see the day. Yes, his fate was worth it after all.

***  
\--Starlight


	6. Of Him the Harpers Sadly Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

"Ssshhh! Someone will hear us! Pass me that stool would you?" There was a scraping noise as something was dragged across a wooden floor.

"Elrohir, I am not certain we should be here."

"Why? Do you not wish to see? Ada said we could look."

"He did not, he said one day, when we were older, he would show us. It is not the same!"

"Aiya, Elladan, if you do not wish to look, keep a guard on the door."  
"I did not say that," came the indignant reply, "I just said that I….oooh!" Elrohir had succeeded in fitting the key into the lock of the huge chest and after a brief struggle, it turned. The lid swung up smoothly and the two young elves looked inside, Elladan on tiptoes, and his brother beside him on the stool.

Both gasped at the sight that met their wondering gaze. Inside the deep chest lay a single, fabric-wrapped item. Glimpses of blue and silver were tantalisingly visible where the white silk had come slightly loose. Forgetting his earlier reluctance, Elladan leaned forward eagerly, "Lift it out so we can see it."

Catching his lip between his teeth, Elrohir leaned over precariously. The stool wobbled warningly, but he recklessly reached forward, fingers straining to catch hold of the folded material. After a moment in which both young elves held their breath, Elrohir managed to snag a corner of the fabric with his small fingers. He lifted it triumphantly, but his smile of delight suddenly turned to alarm as the stool wobbled again and he lost his balance. He fell, stool, mystery object and elf-child all ending on top of Elladan who had no time to move out of the way. They landed in a tangled heap on the floor of the bedchamber.

Elladan glared at his brother, "That hurt, Elrohir! What is it anyway?" he grumbled, struggling to untangle himself from the blue and silver folds and sit up.

Before his twin could answer, a deep musical voice answered from the doorway, "It is the banner of Gil-galad and it is over three thousand years old. Now how, may I ask, did it end up there?"Elrond was hard put not to laugh at the sight of his twin sons. They looked so guilty, sitting in a tangled heap on the floor of his bedchamber.

He knew he should be angry, instead he smiled, moving forward to retrieve the precious banner. He seated himself on the bed and his sons scrambled up next to him, leaning into his side as Elrond gently ran remembering fingers over the rich blue fabric, embroidered with silver stars. Gil-galad, my King…..

"Ada?" Elrohir was looking up at his father hesitantly, "We are sorry, we just wanted to see."

Elrond smiled and caressed his son’s dark hair. "I am not angry, iôn nín." He paused, considering, then settling his sons more comfortably, he began to sing softly, "O Gil-galad i Edhelchír dim linnar i thelegain……"

 

***

Ada- Dad  
Aiya - Oh  
Iôn nín- My son  
O Gil-galad i Edhelchír dim linnar i thelegain - From a translation of The Fall of Gil-galad, literally, "About Gil-galad the Elven-king sad sing the harpers."

\--Erin's Daughter


	7. Folded Banner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

He watched as the guards folded it solemnly and he could not tear his eyes from the black creases, the white devices that hid from him with every turn of the fabric as the only way of life his people had known, the only way of life he had known, was wrapped away. That morning, the Kings’ standard had last flown over the sky of Gondor.

He had stood many times under its protective shadow, more so that day, watching as the White Tree over black swirled in the wind, a fleeting, mocking memory of what the kingdom had been. A kingdom! No more... a kingless realm that was now his task to rule and order. All that dignity, all that glory and power was now safely folded away to be kept at some drawer or chest and be forgotten... for how long? For ever?

A tap at his shoulder made him turn and he looked into his son’s face, but it was a while before he realized Eradan spoke to him; not only spoke, but expected him to do something. What?

"... sir. Sir? Father, they wait for you." Eradan looked down toward his hands and Mardil understood it was time.

It was time, but still he was not ready. How could he ever be? Following his son’s stare, he also looked down and his eyes were dazzled by a bright flash of white as a stray sunbeam lighted the flag, and with great distress he realized he had been gripping the standard so tightly that it was now wrinkled and wet with his sweat. His fingers relaxed almost immediately and he was able to feel the soft fabric beneath his callused hand, smell the scent of camphor that had always meant ‘old’ but now seemed fresh and pleasant, feel, for the first time, the weight of the folded banner he carried that would not be lessened once he gave it up.

"My lord?" he heard someone call, and turned to find a pair of outstretched hands before him. He held his breath as his eyes traveled from the black standard whose color had faded in the sun to the white banner in his arms, and back, finally settling on the outstretched hands again.

"My lord?" he heard the call a second time, feeble, weak, losing itself in the silence, and trembled upon the sounds. Would he allow doubt and uncertainty to grow among the descendants of Númenor? Would he forsake the legacy of his forefathers? Would he let the glory of the Children of Elendil go to waste?

"Nay!" he cried, and breathed. Squaring his shoulders and lifting his head, he walked toward the guards and surrendered the banner to its new place, there to remain until he whose right it was brought the black standard back once more.

After that day, the White Banner of the Stewards flew over the skies of Gondor.

***  
\--Starlight


	8. The Hall of Standards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

by [Forodwaith](mailto:f_waith@yahoo.ca)

"Balin! Balin, come quickly!"

"What is it, Bór?"

"Ori and Óin have sent a message to tell you to come to the second level – they've found something you should see."

Balin left the Chamber of Mazarbul and hurried down the Great Staircase with the young mapmaker at his heels. Only twenty days ago had they re-entered Khazad-dûm, but already they had found so many rich and ancient things that their sense of marvels was beginning to fade. If Ori and Óin thought that Balin should see their discovery immediately, it must be something truly wondrous.

They reached the landing of the second level above the Gates and followed the distant glimmer of Ori's lantern to an arch midway down the first passage. Balin stepped inside first, and halted so suddenly that Bór ran into him from behind. For a moment both of them held their breath at the sight.

Mirror-polished black walls threw back bright gleams from a dozen carved and gilded poles, the standards of great lords of Khazad-dûm's past. More than twice dwarf-height they stood in proud and silent array, as they had since the Second Age, bearing the emblems and devices of Durin's heirs.

"Good work, lads," Balin told Ori and Óin, and clapped them on the backs. "May your beards grow long indeed! Be sure to mark this down, Bór – we've found the Hall of Standards, the Fifth Hall of the Eastern end on the second level."

"But why are they still here?" Bór asked. "Surely there was time to carry them out, before Khazad-dûm was abandoned?"

Balin cuffed the back of his head. "Idiot! What are they teaching you young fellows in the Iron Mountains these days? When the Dwarves raise a standard in our halls, we use quickset to see that it stays put. It may be left behind to be won back later, it may be cut down by our enemies, but it will never be moved."

" _What we have, we hold_ ," Óin murmured, and Balin gave him another approving slap.

"Aye! Just as Durin said, cousin."

Slowly Balin paced down the long line of standards, admiring the shining craftsmanship. The Orcs, with their ignorance of any wealth less subtle than a heap of gold, had not disturbed this hall much. Some of the lower carvings were hacked and scarred, and a few of the largest jewels had been gouged out of their settings, but high above finely detailed hammers and anvils carved from solid jade remained, and the jet eyes of gilded ravens still glittered down at him.

He came to the end, where an empty floor socket waited to receive another pole. In his mind's eye he could already see a tall new standard set there, blazing with fresh gilt – his standard. _Balin, Lord of Khazad-dûm_.

He closed his eyes and gave thanks to Mahal for his good fortune.

* * *

[480 words]

Notes:  
Mahal is the name Dwarves use for Aulë, the Vala who created their ancestors.

The idea of ravens as having great significance for Dwarves is borrowed ([cough] stolen [cough]) from Anglachel's story "The Lions of Khazad-dûm."  



	9. Winter Solstice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

The winter solstice had come and gone, days filled with long twilight and lingering dusk. Into this most elven of hours, he had sent them, nine companions; not one of them, to his mind, really prepared for the task they undertook.

The Lord of Imladris sighed, weary with the weight of all his years tonight, and tried to shake off his gloomy reverie as he prepared for bed. Unbuttoning his dark green robe, he lay it carefully over a chair.

It was equally true that no finer, more prepared group of companions could be found; certainly not with the willingness of heart, the strength of spirit to volunteer to go. Where they had come by it, he did not know. They were strangers, of different ages and races, even their hopes for the journey and how best to accomplish their goal were at odds. Yet they unhesitatingly stood up for each other - uncomfortably at first, but fervent – and if none of them seemed sure how they could serve the quest, each believed he might be able to aid the others.

He slid his long hair inside his grey inner robe and raised it over his head, placed it to lie carefully with the heavier fabric of the green. He would let his mind focus there, on the already flourishing bonds that formed between them. They had all looked proud as they stood gathered to say goodbye at the gate – proud of each other, proud of the invisible steel that let the little ring-bearer stand straight and firm. When the steward’s son had let out that horn blast, the valley walls had taken up the call, sang back their praise. He had looked stern, and cautioned them not to be so foolishly blatant again, but the nine had nodded together in agreement when the big warrior had said they would not go forth like thieves in the night. They had needed their moment, their battle call, the chance to feel their blood stir and answer the summons. They were going to war, perhaps the deadliest war of all. They must battle not only the Shadow, but the desire to run home and abide in safety and joy – perilous, deceptive joy – and let someone else be visible, be vulnerable, carry the flag.

He turned down the coverlet of his bed and sighed. Nine standard-bearers, each knowing he might be asked to pay the ultimate price. Each had nodded, touched his heart to show his steadfastness, and gone through the gates of the valley toward the unknown. He might have wished they had more warriors to rally to them, but their longed-for victory might be better served by their quiet determination. Sometimes a man was strongest stripped back to his feä and his face.

He stood in only his silken shirt, looked down his long body at the ring that gleamed on his softly glowing hand, and placed it in the gesture of farewell over his own heart, where he wore, as he did every hour of every day, an embroidered field of stars on deepest blue. Once you have accepted a standard, there is no way you can surrender it and keep yourself.

He turned and blew out his candles, and stood a moment in the darkened room. He himself was now stripped back to his basic hope for their quest; his desire to see the feä of Arda continue to burn bright.

***  
\-- fileg (powzie@gryphonsmith.com)  
[ fileg's forum ](http://henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=207)

 


	10. Defense Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both Thodred's and Grimbold's quotes are taken directly from _The Battles Of The Fords Of Isen - Unfinished Tales._ Hence the British variant of the word _defense_ is used in Grimbold's statement: _'It is told that he set up on stakes all about the eyot the heads of the axemen that had been slain there, but above the hasty mound of Thodred in the middle was set his banner. "That will be defence enough," he said.'_

_'Let me lie here - to keep the Fords till Éomer comes!'_

The last words spoken by my beloved prince echo in my mind, adding fuel to the debate. Elfhelm would have us abandon the Fords to set an ambush on the eastern shore, convinced as he is that this is the route the forces of Isengard will take.

There is merit to his plan, yet I am loath to give way. I would Erkenbrand was here, for he is a man of the Westfold, as am I. Well he understands the reasons I seek to hold the Fords, and his powers of persuasion are greater than mine - and he carries the weight of command. Yet he has assumed no authority over the Marshal of Edoras.

'You must stand together.' So his message to me had proclaimed, for he would not leave the Deep unprepared, knowing the Dwimmer of Isengard will not allow the stronghold of Helm's Deep to stand unassailed.

'Tis known that Elfhelm is my friend, and I respect his judgement, as I know he does mine. Therein lies the problem, for neither of us wishes to gainsay the other's opinion. In the end it may all be for naught, for we know not how great is the strength gathered against us. Yet as we end our debate each of us knows what must be done.

My friend goes to position his foot-soldiers some few miles north of the Fords, for any approaching army must be slowed by the rough terrain, giving Elfhelm's forces the opportunity to engage the enemy before they reach the Fords. His calvary will stand ready to flank Saruman's forces and drive them into the icy waters of the Isen. I must admit it is a good plan, one which should succeed if no enemy attacks from the western approach. This is my great fear: Saruman will guess how we have set our defense and will send a great force down the road from Isengard to cross the Fords unhindered, and so come between us and those we would defend at Helm's Deep.

And so it is that the greater number of my foot-soldiers man the earth-forts guarding the western approach to the Fords. I will remain with the rest of my men on the east bank; with me will stand those of my Lord Théodred's cavalry who survived the first battle. There is fire in their eyes, unquenched by the tears they have wept for their lord. The enemy will pay dearly; this they have vowed, even as they render him one last service.

The waters of the Isen are chillingly cold as I cleanse my hands. Grim satisfaction I find as I survey the results of our labours; sightless eyes stare into the gathering darkness, mute testimony to the fate of those whose murderous intent had stolen our prince's life. Now in death they will guard the ground he refused to yield. There is but one thing which remains for me to do...

From the eastern shore I look back across the waters which for now run red with naught but the light of the setting sun. Silhouetted by its bright rays, a standard floats on the evening breeze; the white horse, nostrils flared with the scent of battle, charges across the field of green, heralding the scion of the House of Eorl.

"That will be defense enough."

*******  
Note: Both Théodred's and Grimbold's quotes are taken directly from _The Battles Of The Fords Of Isen - Unfinished Tales._ Hence the British variant of the word _defense_ is used in Grimbold's statement: _**'It is told that he set up on stakes all about the eyot the heads of the axemen that had been slain there, but above the hasty mound of Théodred in the middle was set his banner. "That will be defence enough," he said.'**_

~Nessime


	11. Raising The Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

Now others give us our names for we know them no longer; the Sleepless Dead, the Shadow-people, the Forsaken-ones. Oathbreakers are we, Cursed-ones, the Defiled.

He cheated us, who offered us freedom from death, if we should only worship Him. Bitter now our fate, doubly cursed, lingering on un-living, ruing all choices made. Now we spread our horror, cast about our despair, savour the wailing terror of the living as if it were our due, for there is nothing more.

Jealous of secret hoards, still we mount our endless patrols, take up our banners, though their meanings are long lost, like dead branches in skeleton hands. Ragged, pale they stream behind us in tattered threads, like ghastly shrouds.

Yet even now, some nights without a moon, something stirs within and we pass out to our Stone, our trysting place. It changes not, though the grasses grow and the long work of worms mound up the land. Once, once we know it had a meaning, yearning we stretch out our hands to touch it, but all we can do is whisper, melt back into the mountains before the breaking of the dawn.

But even as the Shadow’s strength grows stronger, now comes the strange time, the summoning time. Memory creeping ever closer and the longing for something, we know not what, becoming as the stretching of a rack that would tear us all in twain.

Grey-shrouded are they, these intruders in our halls, yet one glows with a green light, clear and clean, that is not the corpse-light of decay. The still-living hands of another grasp a staff, close-furled, black yet heavy with a meaning un-revealed. Can this be fear? How dare he summon us! Yet we are drawn. So we take up our faded banners our spears and our horns and follow on.

Ah, the memories break upon us like a storm. The Master defeated, the tall, grey-eyed Sea King, strong and commanding, showing us many things. Isildur that was, he who planted the Stone, brought from the West in defiance of the dark. What a wonder that seemed to us, raised as we were under Sauron’s sway. Darkest black, yet it gave rather than devoured, mirrored in its shining crown a circle of glittering stars. Eager, then, we offered our oaths, only to fail when the Master returned. Years beyond count we paid for that shame.

Yet Isildur’s Heir stands here now, names himself for the elf stone he bears, and I feel, this time, there will be no failing at the test. He unfurls his banner, black in the night, and I would weep, if I could, at the wonder of it all. That the eyes of a wraith, so long used to the dark, are those first able to see its light. At the last I know I will find my peace and follow this King of the White Tree and Stars.

***  
Alawa

alawa@madasafish.com  
[my forum](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=90)


	12. Halbarad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

"I will walk this path alone, if need be," he said. As though there were any chance of that! Steel sharp eyes nodded their assent all along the line, and we passed the portal together.

We who are his brothers rode at his side - Elrohir his elven brother, and I the human. Elladan too deserved this pride of place, but had taken his calm elven heart to the back of the pack to ride between the men and the dead, his presence behind us a steadying anchor in the storm of terror and doubt. Thirty grey shadows, heading a growing column of shadows and shades, growing darker as they massed and came... and outside, though we did not yet know it, the sky boiling to an ever darker grey.

Are you surprised I mention the terror? It was there, believe me! The horses could smell it, our hearts kept it’s rhythm. It is the doubt I lie to you about, for I never had any – I rode forward on a road that had no returning, and found a new strength rising in me with every step. It was his strength, and I embraced it with all my will.

When we massed at the stone, he declared himself to the shadows he had raised to fight The Shadow, and bid me turn and show them who he was.

My pride in being beside him, seeing him revealed lifted my heart to rapture. And, my terror had fallen away by then. Why should I fear the dead? I was one of them, just a little warmer… though not much, and not for long.

I held his banner high, and let it unfurl, so dark it ate the blackness around us, swallowed it and waited to spit it at our foes. The powesr that had been so carefully wrought upon it did not deign to show themselves yet. Like him, their time was approaching, but not yet here. The living could not see the banner, and the dead – they do not see as we see. But oh, they saw alright.

They could not deny him; they would come.

One by one, the banners of the dead began to be raised in his cause. Our living eyes could not accept the very things we were shown, but they were there. Perhaps only I could see them in the gathering grey. Clouds scudded across the sky, marking the companies, the tattered, spectral banners unwinding like grave sheets in the wind.

The gathering storm tore them, stretching their cirrus vapors, rending them, lofting them, snapping their phantom devices everywhere over our heads. But never a sound, not one, but the sighing of the wind and the living beats of our own hearts to create the striking of their hoofbeats over the land.

I rode to war with my brother, somewhere between the living and the dead.

***

\--fileg (powzie@gryphonsmith.com)  
[ fileg's forum ](http://henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=207)

 


	13. The Riders from Erech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

It may have been morning but Angbor, Lord of Lamedon could not say. None could. Over Linhir, as elsewhere, the sun had not dawned that day, as it had not a day earlier. Over the fields and rivers, there now hung a brown mist, still and unchanging.

Little was visible. Yet Angbor’s men fought valiantly on against the foe from the south to defend the fords. The increasing grimness of the situation reflected clearly on his face as they charged down on a new influx of Corsairs. There was no help to be had. Minas Tirith itself was under attack; he had in fact sent some of his men to help them out. Those left fought under the shadow of fear that this sudden, unknown darkness induced. He felt its icy tentacles clutch at him too, but could not afford to display it, preferring instead to concentrate on the known foe.

The shouts came from the periphery first and went ignored, assumed to be battle cries. Then they got louder and clearer, as those nearer the water realised that their men were running towards them in great haste. The words tripped out of fearful mouths, above the sounds of weapons clanging.

"The King of the Dead! The King of the Dead is upon us!"

Despite the failing light, he could see them - a company shrouded in grey, some on horseback, some on foot, and all moving at great speed. In the background, pale banners bobbed up and down, still as the air above them, as the mass of shapes came closer and closer. The frenzy of battle was replaced by chaos and confusion. Horses screamed in terror, as did men, discarding weapons and backing away. A shield crashed to the ground near his feet.

"Stay!" he cried out to the melee, but it seemed all were assailed by a feeling of dread. They began fleeing and he shouted again, trying to calm them down even as his own horse shied in fear. He dismounted and stood, helplessly watching the new terror attacking his land. The shapes were clearer now. There were riders, some two score perhaps, and behind them came the Dead, the same that he knew from tales once told to frighten young children.

Then he saw the standard that was proudly raised, foremost. He had missed it at first for it was black, and went unseen in the surrounding darkness. Around him, the fighting had stopped as the black banner came closer and closer, followed by the pale ones. It was not just his men who had dropped their arms; the Corsairs had done likewise.

The horseman at the lead rode up to him, even as he stood waiting, sword in hand, ready in defence. Then the dread seemed to seep away. He looked up at the banner, seeing for the first time the devices on it, then turned his eyes to a king of the living, as hope replaced despair.

***  
\--acacea


	14. Out of Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know omer "spoke these staves" before he recognized Aragorn's standard, but Tolkien didn't say exactly _what_ omer sang as he caught his sword, so I'm fudging it just a bit in the hope that it's not inappropriate to use them as I have.

_'Death, death, death! Death take us all!'_

Death, it seems, has given heed to my call. Death surrounds me now, claiming friend and foe with equal caprice, and I - fool that I am - I have become death's instrument. _'Death! Ride, ride to ruin...!'_ I had sounded the call, and with one fell voice the Eorlingas had answered.

_So, my young hot-head...how will you get out of this mess?_

So often had you spoken these words that it scarce requires imagining now. Oh! Dred...how I would that the kingly standard that ripples e'en now in the wind had passed into your steady hands. You were the king who should have been, yet fate's cruel fortune has placed me in your stead.

Aye, and the wind that once I blessed has become our foe, billowing the black sails of yon accursed fleet. Horns from the walls of Mundburg sound the retreat, but there is no retreat for the Riders of the Mark. Betrayed by my own battle fury we find ourselves cut off; our enemies flow like a river around us, their blood lust quickened at the sight of that which speaks to us of naught but despair.

Yet I look at them, these warriors of the Mark who stand tall and resolute before the standard of their king, and my heart swells with pride. All will stand and fight, with hope or no, and I hear myself laugh. Yes, I will laugh in the face of despair, for have we not faced defeat and ruin before? A strange fate has made me king, lord of a fell people, and tho' 'tis likely I shall be the last , we will do such deeds this day as songs are made of, tho' none be left to remember.

Defiantly my sword is raised...but wait! I cast my sword up into the sunlight as wonder turns to joy at what my eyes behold; out of the shadows of death, carried on the wings of morning, a legend rises once more before my wondering eyes. There on the lead vessel, unfurled upon the twice blessed wind, flys the great standard that none but the rightful lord of Gondor may display.

Song bursts from my lips as my sword is caught in my outstretched hand.

_'Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising  
I came singing in the sun...'_

*******  
Note: Yes, I know Éomer "spoke these staves" before he recognized Aragorn's standard, but Tolkien didn't say exactly _what_ Éomer sang as he caught his sword, so I'm fudging it just a bit in the hope that it's not inappropriate to use them as I have.

~Nessime  



	15. The Black Serpent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

The Southron lord was pleased. His wide grin revealed a glint of gold as he surveyed his troops. After the onslaught of the Horse Lords bearing their banner of white and green, the Southron army was gathered about the feet of the great _mumakil_ , taking refuge by the great beasts. The Horse Lords dared not approach, for their horses balked and shied from the giant living war towers.

Fortune is on our side, thought the Southron lord. The Horse Lords were outnumbered by his own forces, and aid came to him out of Osgiliath. The forces of Mordor would soon hew their way to the White City. Our Southron lord's grin only widened at the sight of the black Corsairs of Umbar making their way up the mighty Anduin. His opponents quailed at this even as he renewed his attack.

But then fortunes changed again. As the Horse Lords and the armies of Gondor steeled themselves for a desperate fight, there came a sight to bring true hope into their hearts. The Southron lord saw it too, but it did not bring hope to him. From the Corsair leading the fleet up the river there unfurled a black banner upon which glittered a White Tree, Seven Stars, and a bright crown.

The Southron lord's heart quailed within him. But the moment passed  
and he and his troops rallied to fierceness in defence. There was one, however, who did not rally but rather made to run - the standard bearer. The Southron lord noticed this and called to him.

"You there! Come here!" The standard bearer hastened to stand before his lord. "Do you take this as cause for a retreat?" demanded the Southron lord.

"No, my lord," the standard bearer said.

"Then why do you run?" shouted the Southron lord as the man before him shook. "Such a coward is not fit to carry the Black Serpent!" With  
that he slew the standard bearer and took up the banner himself. He  
let sound a mighty war-cry and plunged into battle once again, to fight the strengthened Army of the West.

Fortune was not to smile upon the Southrons again that day. The  
Southron lord himself was slain. The Black Serpent ended, like so many of those men who had marched beneath it, fallen and trampled in the mud of the Pelennor Fields.

***  
\--Madgamgee

My discussion can be found[ here](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=315).


	16. The Banner of the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

Thranduil did not need to hear the reports, nor did he need to see the destruction of the forest that heralded the rapidly approaching invasion. Ever since Dagorlad, the ice cold fingers of evil had been sending chills through his blood, reminding him that eventually the day would come when the shadow would rise again. He knew not only that had once again risen in Dol Guldur, but that it was about to engulf the very heart of his realm of Mirkwood, and he sensed that Sauron’s minions were close at hand. He hurriedly made his way to the armoury and retrieved the banner that, millennia ago, had lead the Silvan host into battle. Carrying the folded cloth reverently to the gates that protected the entrance to his Hall, he carefully raised it high above where all could see it. Many of the warriors in the courtyard below had seen the banner newly unfurled at Dagorlad, and bowed their heads in respect for their lost comrades before resuming their preparations for the battle to come.

The banner, woven of fine elvish cloth had once been strong shades of brown and green, with the emblem of the House of Oropher emblazoned boldly in the centre. Over time its edges had frayed, and it had faded, with some discolouration in spots that might have been bloodstains giving it the appearance of nothing more than a tattered rag as it fluttered in the cold wind. To the approaching invaders it symbolised that their enemy was weak and unprepared for battle, but the Orcs and the Easterlings could not have been more mistaken

It was so much more than just a piece of cloth. It had been damaged during the battle of the Last Alliance when the standard bearer had fallen next to his King as he was trying to protect him. Their blood had mingled on the banner as they died, but the army had fought on courageously over the following years until the enemy had been defeated. Thranduil had never repaired nor cleaned the banner in that time, nor since, for it had always been the symbol of a strong willed King and had invoked a steadfast loyalty from his warriors. In more recent times it had been carried proudly into the Battle of the Five Armies, where the Elves again proved themselves to be fierce warriors who would fight to the death to defend their King and all that the banner stood for.

So it would be this day.

***  
\--jenolas


	17. The Life of a Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

"'To health? ...It may be so. At least while there is an empty saddle of some fallen rider that I can fill, and there are deeds to do. But to hope? I do not know.'" ~ Éowyn, ch. 8, Book V, The Return of the King

***

The field was empty of all save shattered weapons and churned mud, the healers were near exhausted, and pyres burned day and night. Yet hope and joy swept through Cormallen unchecked, even amidst the toll of war; the Shadow was defeated, a King tended the wounded in the White City, and Faramir, it was said, would live.

Imrahil felt relief as surely as any man, felt hope spark in his heart and lift his eyes eagerly towards the future, where before he might have shuddered and turned away. Yet he could not find it in himself to rejoice quite so loudly as his men. The truth was, war-- even victory-- weighed heavy on his heart, and he could not forget the men he had lost. Nor one who still lay in the Houses of Healing, the noblest lady he had ever known. If Éowyn could not recover from her battle with the Witch-King, it would be a terrible weight to the already heavy price he knew they had paid for victory. Imrahil had saved her life, when all others had believed her dead, but now he heard news that she lay as sadly as ever in the Houses of Healing. And if she could not regain herself, might it not have been better to let her die honorably on the field of battle? Might he, perhaps, have wronged her by bringing her back to a life she no longer cared for?

"My lord--" a soldier approached, saluted, "My lord, our standard was torn irreparably in battle."

Imrahil frowned slightly, surprised he would be consulted on such a minor issue. "What of it? Surely another banner can be made to the same design." But then, an idea occurred to him, giving pause to his brusque dismissal. Éowyn was beyond his charge now, but surely there was still something he could do for such a valiant lady. With his words, he stopped the soldier mid embarrassed retreat. "Or no. Have our standard remade as it was, yet add a small silver vambrace in the corner."

"A vambrace, my lord?" The soldier echoed, puzzled.

Imrahil smiled, eyes focused beyond his soldier's face. "A vambrace. In hopes that the life of a lady may yet be saved."

***  
\--Pauline Arsenault

A/N: (When Éowyn was carried off the Pelennor Fields, Imrahil proved she still lived by holding his polished armguard-- "vambrace"-- to her lips, which showed the mist of her breath.)  



	18. Borne On Its Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

Faramir stood in the doorway. Much as he would rather avoid this, he knew what was expected of him, of the Steward. Shaking his head, he entered the room.

Soon, his father’s wardrobe had been taken away, art hung elsewhere, rugs replaced, the desk traded for Faramir’s own, as were all books and maps. The bed was too large to remove but the linens and bedding would be replaced. Even the type of strewing herbs used was changed. The room was to be completely purged… no part of Denethor would remain, not even his scent, to prod at memories if Faramir was required to sleep here… and he was.

One item remained, a small chest found when the ticking was removed from the bedstead. Faramir pointed at it and flicked his wrist toward the door, as he had done with everything else. No one moved. Faramir looked for the first time at the people he had been commanding, his eyes met Denethor’s valet. "Sir, your father never allowed any of us to touch that chest. I will remove it if necessary, but only after his heir opens it."

Faramir’s hands tightened on the back of the divan that had been supporting him since he arrived. Had he not been keenly aware of the pain and sympathy in the servant’s eyes he would have found someone else to rid him of it, instead he nodded and sat on the bench before opening it.

The silver threads outlining each feather of the silken wing caught his attention, the blue velvet, crushed from being balled tightly in the corner of the chest. He lifted the banner, examining the border design, the trace stitchery. Faramir’s brows furrowed as he recognized the banner. He remembered Imrahil bearing this very standard as he followed his sister along the Rath Dínen; recalled him draping it over Finduilas’s body as she lay in the House of the Stewards.

After the entombment, his uncle shared that Finduilas had sown the banner, gifting him with it the first time he led the Knights of Dol Amroth into battle. He told Faramir that Finduilas would be strengthened on her journey bearing the standard of her first family. The boy knew this to be true for he had witnessed his mother standing on the ship’s wall looking south times uncountable, had watched her eyes light and her back straighten when she recognized the banner of the White Swan in the distance each time Dol Amroth came to Minas Tirith.

Faramir’s eyes filled, realizing there was no tomb remaining to drape this over, it had been destroyed with his father. He sat on his mother’s divan clutching the banner that should have been left with her to his breast, once again consumed with his impotence.

A sudden memory blazed against his closed eyes. He lay dying, his shoulder on fire, the rest of him encased in ice, as the shadow devoured him. Suddenly he was lifted, strong arms surrounded him and he felt a brief instance of warmth as he opened his eyes for the last time and he saw the White Swan standard of Imrahil. His uncle had come to give him strength on his journey as well.

That night, the Steward rested his head in his hands as he sat at his desk; he still wearied too quickly. Leaning back, his eyes lifted to the standard hanging on the wall of his new quarters. The banner that had provided the strength he needed to remain long enough for his King to claim him; the Standard, not of home, but of family.

***  
\--chris / cps250@yahoo.com  



	19. Written On Cloth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

_And when the sun rose in the clear morning above the mountains in the East, upon which shadows lay no more, then all the bells rang, and all the banners broke and flowed in the wind; and upon the White Tower of the Citadel the standard of the Stewards, bright argent like snow in the sun, bearing no charge or device, was raised over Gondor for the last time._

-The Return Of The King

***

Aragorn and Faramir sat quietly on a low stone bench in the gardens, enjoying a break from one of the many councils that took up their days. High above, the banner of the White Tree snapped and curled in the wind.

"It still seems strange," Faramir murmured. "That glittering black banner where once was only white, soft and pure as those clouds."

"You lived your whole life under the white banner," Aragorn said. "It would seem strange, I think."

There was a long silence. "It astonishes me, sometimes," Faramir went on at last, "how much in reverence we hold these things." A wry smile graced his lips. "A bit of cloth on a pole, by itself no more meaningful than a piece of paper on which nothing is written, nor shall be." But Aragorn caught bitterness, not humour, in the timbre of Faramir's voice, and thought he knew the cause.

He rose, extending his hand to the Steward. "Come with me," he said.

Faramir took his hand and stood. "As my lord wishes," he said, and Aragorn chuckled softly.

"Your lord wishes you would stop calling him 'lord' and start calling him 'Aragorn'."

Faramir smiled. "I shall endeavour to, Aragorn."

"Good. Now come," and together they started back towards the Citadel.

At last they came to the throne room, and the foot of the stairs. Behind the throne and to one side hung the black and silver banner of the Tree and Stars, smaller than the one that flew from the topmost spire of the Tower; to the other side hung the white standard of the Stewards, gleaming in the light that filtered in from the day outside.

Faramir felt his heart race at the sight of the beloved banner which had for so long been the token of all he fought for, of all his sacrifices.

"My lord," he said softly, his voice breaking. "I thought - when did -"

"This morning," said Aragorn. "I had not intended that when the standard of the Stewards was lowered it would be shut away to gather dust and fade. It has been brought forth and returned to its proper place."

When he turned to Aragorn, Faramir's eyes were bright with unshed tears.

Taking Faramir's hands in his own, Aragorn brought them to his heart. "So much is written on both these cloths," he said, "no less so on the white than on the black. All the sacrifices, all the loss, all are written here. We would not stand here now if not for what is written on this white cloth."

"Written in the blood of Gondor," Faramir murmured, looking again at the gleaming white banner, and he turned his gaze to Aragorn's. "I thank you for it, lord."

"'Fealty with love, valour with honour,'" said Aragorn softly, and with a quick kiss to Faramir's hands he released him, and said, "and friendship with friendship. 'Aragorn,' if you will."

Faramir chuckled. "Indeed, my - " and he caught himself, and finished, "my friend."

***  
\--shadow975/Rachel  



	20. Raising the Standard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

It is chilly in the northern wilderness most mornings, even in summer, and today is no exception. Later it will be scorching hot, but for now, I shiver as I make my way to the first cabin. The cup of tea the night watch gave me helps, but sunlight will help more.

Opening the door, I stick my head in and in my stern commander’s voice say, "Up with you now. Muster in five." Groans and mumbled curses answer me.

The next cabin is much the same, same as it always has been. Even on a day such as this, soldiers awake as they always have and I suppose always will.

By the time I reach the last cabin, the men in it are already awake and the men from the first are up and about. The camp quickly settles into the morning routine as it always has, taking no heed of our guests. Within minutes, the company is milling about awaiting my command to form up for the raising at sunrise.

Looking at the eastern sky, I judge the time to be right and give the command. "Assemble for the raising of the flag." With little fuss or noise, the company is standing in neatly spaced rows exactly in front of our flagpole.

I notice a movement in the corner of my eye. Turning, I see him step out of his cabin. He seems taller now, though I have known him since I was a lad. He was the perfect Ranger then, the one we all tried to be; he looks the perfect King now, though you can never completely wash the Ranger out of a man.

I try not to stare, but she is so beautiful, my eyes linger for as long as I dare as the Queen moves join him. Even in trousers, boots and an old gray Ranger sweater, with the sleeves rolled up, as it is several sizes too large, she is a jewel.

As soon as the Queen is at his side, the King strides over and takes a place alongside me. The Queen stands by my other side. Bracketed by royalty, I feel nervous as a schoolboy standing to read a difficult piece. The feeling passes in a moment as the first blazing gold of the Sun breaks the horizon and routine takes over.

"Attention!" I bark, and the company, including King and Queen, stand erect facing the pole.

"Hoist the colors." I command. The trumpeter sounds the royal fanfare, the flagman hauls on the rope and the King’s Standard goes up the pole at our little Ranger camp for the first time.

I am not ready for the tingled chill that sweeps over me. Tears come to my eyes as I see the Standard of Elendil unfurl in the morning breeze. It is hard to believe than an old Ranger can be moved to tears by something so simple, but this is what we fought for all my life, all my father’s life and his fathers before him. This is why there are so many good Rangers buried in hidden graves across Eriador. It is more than a piece of cloth. Our King is more than a man with a jewel on his brow. He and our flag say that we, The Faithful, have triumphed in the end, we own this land, we govern ourselves and we will pass our way of life on to our sons and daughters.

***  
\--Fëadan  



	21. Red Roses, Golden Arrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

Timeframe: November 3, S. R. 1419, during the Scouring of the Shire.

Foreword: The Tooks make a banner of their own for Pippin to carry as he rides out to battle the Ruffians.

***

Pimmie shook out the banner so everyone could see it entire. Pervinca reached out and stretched it to its full width. Pearl leaned forward, studying the stitching of some of the roses; she had fussed endlessly over them. Eglantine picked up a fringed edge, rubbing it between her fingers as tears welled up in her eyes.

"Oh, my dears, it really is beautiful," she said. "Don’t you think so, Paladin?"

The Thain of the Shire nodded slowly, his face full of pride. "Yes, it is, Tina. All of you have done a wonderful job." His jaw tightened. "And now those ruffians will get a fine reminder of what it means to challenge the Tooks. This makes a splendid device for Peregrin to carry as he rides forth—a lucky thing it was almost done already."

The Took ladies had begun to sew and embroider the banner nearly six weeks ago, soon after Sharkey and his men had arrived and started their destruction in late September. Paladin had sent the messenger from Lotho Sackville-Baggins on his way with a warning that anyone who presumed to enter the Tookland without the Thain’s permission would be shot on sight. The Big Folk had laughed at that, they heard later, certain no hobbits would dare to kill them. But they stopped laughing after the first round of skirmishes, when they crawled back to their holes with many dead or wounded by the Took archers’ arrows.

It was Pimpernel who suggested one night at dinner that the Tooks ought to have a banner of some sort to fly over Great Smials, as both a gesture of defiance and a reminder of independence. All, particularly her sisters and mother, greeted her idea with great enthusiasm. The next morning, Eglantine rummaged through the storeroom where she kept the spare cloth, and found a good-sized square of forest green velvet.

"The color is just right since we live in the Green Hills, isn’t it?" she asked.

Pearl in turn contrived the design of a golden bow and arrows intertwined with and surrounded by red and white roses that honored their mother’s name. All the hobbit women in Great Smials formed a sewing circle and set to work with a will. They stitched and embroidered as though their lives depended on it, but none worked harder than Pearl.

She had been consumed by anxiety from the day the Tooks learned that Pippin, Merry and Frodo had ridden off together into the wild. Now she sewed until her eyes watered and her fingers bled, as though making the banner would somehow bring her kin back to the Shire safe and sound. She even set her two little girls, Amethyst and Lilac, to tatting fringe for the edges. Pimmie sewed on it as well, between the patrols she insisted on riding with her male cousins; she was one of the best archers in the family and was determined to make the ruffians pay in blood for what they were doing to the Shire.

By early November, it was almost finished, with only one strip of fringe left to attach. And then that very night, Pippin rode up to Great Smials, tall and proud in his sable and silver livery. His stunned family welcomed him with endless tears, kisses, and embraces, amazed at both his sudden return and his long journeys. When he declared he would be riding out again in the morning with a squadron of Took archers to help end Sharkey’s rule, his mother and sisters sat up half the night in flickering candlelight to complete the banner, so Pippin could carry it with him.

Paladin slipped the banner onto the staff in his hands and looked at the others. "Come," he said, "it’s time."

They walked in silence to the Great Door and stepped out. There, Pippin sat on his pony, a hundred archers mounted behind him, awaiting his command. Paladin marched down the flight of stairs and thrust the banner up to his son.

"Your battle standard, Peregrin," he said in a choked voice. "I know you will ride under it with courage—you have shown so much already. I am so very proud of you." He grasped Pippin’s hand firmly.

Pippin looked down at Paladin, and then turned his gaze to his mother and sisters standing on the stoop. "I will, Father, you needn’t worry about that." He smiled. "And I will be back sooner than you can imagine." He lifted his arm and brought it down sharply. "We ride!"

Everyone spurred their ponies into a gallop as they headed north to Hobbiton. Pippin raised the banner into the wind as he rode, letting it wave, the green and gold and red blazing in the autumn sunshine. His family watched as they held hands. Pearl turned to Pimmie, her face filled with concern.

"Will he be fine, do you think?"

Pimmie smiled. "Oh yes, Pippin will be just fine." She put her arm around Pearl’s waist. "He’s all grown up now, and not afraid of anything." She laughed then, her eyes shining. "We’re free, free for good—didn’t you know?"

***  
\-- Regina  



	22. What the Banner Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

"The first time I saw it, I held my breath. It looked so majestic flying in the air! There was a strong wind and the white horse seemed to gallop over the green fields of the Mark with the deep blue sky at its back. Nay, not galloping, but floating! I shall never forget that day," Lothíriel said as she ran her hand through her son’s hair.

"Did Father show it to you?" He lifted his face to hers, a sly twinkle in his eyes.

"No. I didn’t know your father very well, then. The war had just ended." She paused and let her gaze wander toward the shadow of the eastern mountains and her heartbeat quickened, but not in fear. She leaned back against the tree and sighed. "When I first saw your father, he was standing among a cluster of golden haired warriors, but I saw only him. He looked fair and handsome, just like you, but something was amiss; I had to look twice to realize what it was: his shoulders were always taut and rigid, and his smile vague, wistful. Then I learned that his Uncle had died and he had found himself King of the Eorlingas. How my heart grieved!"

"Why? Weren’t you happy for him?"

"I could not be happy, then. The memory of my cousin’s face as he realized he was Steward was written in my heart, and I recognized in Éomer’s eyes the same odd flicker, the same set of his mouth, the tightened jaw, the shoulders... he was not happy, Elfwine. He was afraid.

"Afraid?" He sat upright. "Why would he be afraid? To be King was his job!"

"Aye, for it was, and he knew it all to well. A job which he had never expected to have, a duty that he thought was too grand for him, a position that should have been filled by another..." She closed her eyes, and only realized she was gripping her son’s arm too tightly when she felt him shift in her hold. "The first time I came to Edoras, I came to King Théoden’s funeral. The Mark was sad, but the white horse on green stood firm as did your father, your aunt, your people. So many sacrifices were made for us to have what we do now! So many precious lives were lost! Your father knew and regretted it, but I think he must have seen the banner too, for after that day he was a different man. His smile brightened again."

He squared his shoulders and looked toward the flag in front of the hall. "So, the banner reminded him of his heritage?"

"It did. The banner told him that this was his destiny, and he understood."

"What about you, mama? What about your destiny?"

"The second time I came to Edoras, your father did show me the banner, and it spoke to me."

"What did it say?"

She smiled. "It said that my destiny was here, too."  
  
****  
\--Starlight


	23. A Small Tribute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

She had made the castle as tall she could. The sand was fine, soft, and muddy, not to mention being rather too wet - but with a bit of work she got it standing waist-high at least.

The walls were lined with pebbles - for it had always been described to her as a city of stone. And she had poked a great many holes for windows, for all the people who lived there. (Many more than in the whole of the Shire, so she had been told, though it was difficult to picture them all living in the one place.) She also used extra care marking out the great gates, and placing the battlements around the very top.

It was all very grand indeed, she thought, as she stood back a few paces to admire the finished product. But there was something missing.

She wandered along the river's edge until she found a large wet leaf, which, darkened from damp and rot, was almost black. She stuck a twig through it, and then, running back to her creation, mounted the flag on the very top.

Just then, "Ho, Dilly, that's a nice one!"

Her little brother made impressed noises as he circled the sandcastle.

"It’s the King’s city, in Gondor," she explained proudly.

"What's that, but?"

"That's the King's standard," she told him scathingly, because of course he should have known.

"Well it's not right then, it should have stars," he replied in an equally scornful tone, "Like Dad's uniform."

She frowned. She knew there was supposed to be silver on the black, but that was really asking a bit much from a leaf. After thinking for a few moments, though, she pulled from her pocket a bit of chalkstone she used to draw hopscotch squares. It wasn't much good on wet leaf, but she managed to produce a few star-like blobs.

"That will have to do," she said as she returned it to its place.

"Dad's tunic has a crown," remarked Fara helpfully, hanging over her shoulder, "And that should be on the flag too. Remember, Dill? Dad told us about that great big flag that the Queen made? It's like this," he said, moving to a flat patch of sand and drawing with his finger. "Stars, and the crown... Oh! And the tree, of course."

Dilly tried to picture the things her father showed her sometimes - she especially liked the bits of armour. She pictured him standing bravely on the battlefield, decked out in all his finery.

But she also remembered the scars her father bore, and knew that armour alone wasn’t enough to keep anyone safe. And it wasn’t kept so proudly for its bright mail and shiny buckles, anyway, but because it meant he was a real knight of Gondor.

"See, like that!" her brother declared, interrupting her thoughts to show her his work.

Exasperated, she reached over to correct him, for he’d gotten it all wrong.

"No, not like that!"

Between the two of them they soon had a fair approximation of the design sketched in the sand. The tree, the stars, and the crown above all.

Fara looked between it and the makeshift leaf-banner, then back at his sister and said, "That's probably good enough, though."

And Dilly thought it was, too.

***  
\--Ijemanja


	24. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

A/N: Another ["Dynasty"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter.cfm?STID=45) derivative featuring Nharadh and Bergil. Also works off of ["Giving Gifts."](http://www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter.cfm?STID=1870)

Story set in Harad.

***

Nharadh could see the shock on the faces of the new members of Khera's company. It was ever thus, and he and Bergil exchanged a look as the newcomers assembled before the two men who would govern their lives and fortunes for the next three years. It was traditional for the pair to meet new additions to Khera fortress together, to welcome them to Harad, to make themselves known, and provide an abbreviated set of rules that would keep them out of trouble 'til the lieutenants could instruct them more thoroughly. They had done this now thrice, and Nharadh, despite greater authority, let Bergil do most of the talking, since the newcomers nearly always took orders more readily from Bergil than from him, at least at first.

But he did have a few words to say towards the end, and when Bergil had finished admonishing his men that they were not to rely upon Westron and were not to neglect the discipline that Haradrim practiced when it came to water in these dry lands, Nharadh stepped forward. His eyes swept over the group, and for a time, he said nothing, waiting until he sensed a certain wary curiosity begin to take hold. Then only did he speak, his accent at odds with the precision of his words. "You will have noticed the flag. I assure you that in every hall, even in the north of this land which follows Gondor more closely, it hangs beneath our own even if it does not fly from the battlements as it does here: black serpent and red eye. You may wonder why it is shown, since we owe no allegiance to Mordor." He paused then, to let that sink in a moment before he continued:

"For every victor in war, one flag must fall that another may rise. Yet in Harad we say that a banner is worth no more than the men who stand beneath it. Many have fallen beneath the red eye–as many as fell beneath Harad's flag, and all were our brothers and our fathers. Shall we dishonor them by burning what they bled for, or casting it into the dust to lie forgotten? Was it for that that none came home from Pelennor fields? No. Therefore, do not wonder that we raise still the banner of our defeat and hold it still dear in despite of the Lord of Gifts."

After which, Bergil dismissed the newcomers to the barracks. And he turned then to Nharadh, and said, "One day it shall come down, though. The past slips from our grasp."

To which Nharadh only smiled serenely as he glanced up at that black flag, and replied, "One day. But not today." And when Bergil only shook his head and, after a moment, laid a hand on his shoulder ere he excused himself, Nharadh sighed. Staring up at that banner, he murmured to himself, "One day, aye, Bergil. But not soon. Good rest in Gondor, Father. Good day."

***  
\--Dwimordene

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	25. Banner of Rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries by HA list members for the Banners Challenge. Organized roughly chronologically. Titles serve as chapter titles. Authors may leave contact information in their particular chapters.

She waited in quiet of the antechamber. Through the walls she could hear the rise and fall of voices of those pledging their fealty to the new King. Hands wandered aimlessly over the folded cloth in her lap. A galloping white horse on a field of green trimmed with gold. One by one she had repaired the rents in the banner; gently washed out the dirt and blood left behind by battle. Not all had come out but this only meant it would join the stains that came from before.

In a few moments, she would present the banner to the new King. Fate had been kind to him though cruel as well. Traditionally, the standard of the King’s house was handed down from father to son, but not so today. It had changed when the old King had had the grievous task of burying his son, the shining glory of young manhood dimmed by death. Yet still, there was the sister-son to whom the crown would go, a bittersweet joy. Then the King had been slain in battle, naming his nephew as heir with his dying breath. Thus it was that it fell to her, his sister, to make the presentation.

The door creaked open and a voice said, "My lady, it is time."

Nodding in acknowledgement, she rose and left the antechamber. She paid no heed to the murmurs that came from the rows of people that lined either side of the Golden Hall. Her eyes were fixed on the beloved face that sat quietly on the throne. How right he looked sitting there with the gold in the crown almost matching the gold of his hair. Before she realized it, she was before him.

"As it has been done since the beginning, I give you the Standard of Rohan," she said in clear voice that could be heard by all. "The second line of the House of Eorl has ended and the third line of Eomer Eadig has begun."

Eomer accepted the banner from Eowyn and as she started to back away he stopped her.

"Just a moment," he said and stood. "We are at the dawning of a new age. With the blessing of the King of Gondor and the Prince of Ithilien, I give this banner to you, my sister. A wedding present if you will," he placed the precious cloth in her arms. "In Emyn Arnen, the banners of Rohan and Ithilien shall fly together, uniting the two lands just as you and Faramir will be joined in marriage."

It took Eowyn a moment before she could pry her tongue from the roof of her mouth. "But what of you?"

Eomer smiled and gently caressed her cheek. "I start a new House in a new Age, what better time for a new banner."

Eowyn clasped the flag to her breast, a piece of her home, her heritage would go with her. Maybe now, it would be easier to leave and start her new life.

***

\--Deb  



End file.
